After a patient that he’s sleeping with commits suicide, psychiatrist Ed Altman (Mickey Rourke) moves to Palm Springs and sets up a new practice in the desert. His attorney (Carre Otis) is able to get Altman off the hook legally but Ed is soon in more trouble as he meets and falls for Ally Mercer (Annabel Schofield). When Ally’s husband is murdered, Ed realizes that Ally and her fur coat-wearing boyfriend (Anthony Michael Hall) are trying to frame him for the crime.
Plotwise, this is a standard late night cable neo-noir, the type that was very popular in the late 90s. The one thing that distinguishes this Showtime production from the film that were airing on Cinemax at the time is the lack of explicit onscreen sex. (Despite the pairing of Mickey Rourke and his then-wife, Carre Otis, this is not another Wild Orchid. Carre Otis is somehow even less convincing as an attorney in Exit to Red than she was in the earlier film.) Instead, Ed just talks about sex constantly and even gives us a long monologue about why he loves long legs as if that’s something that makes him somehow unique. Every guy loves long legs but most of us can appreciate them without having to recite a Spalding Gray-style performance piece about them. If you’ve ever wondered what it would be like to listen to Mickey Rourke read one of those “How To Be A Player” books, you can just listen to his narration in Exit in Red.
Director Yurek Bogajevicz is one of the many 90s filmmakers who went from doing arthouse films like Anna to directing films like Exit In Red. Watching the movie, I got the feeling that Bogajevicz was trying to be subversive with his genre film, in the style of Paul Verhoeven. There are a few times when he almost succeeds but, far more often, his direction seems as if it’s trying too hard to keep audiences from noticing the bad script and the wooden performances. Luckily, Mickey Rourke goes all out as Dr. Altman. The film would have been incredibly dull if he hadn’t.
“She kept covering her eyes, whispering ‘please take me home, please take me home, please take me home…’ a week later I got her outta there and I brought her home… but she just kept repeating it. At that point I realized… she didn’t mean OUR home.” — Victoria Dempsey
The Poughkeepsie Tapes emerges from the shadows of independent horror like a grainy artifact unearthed from some forgotten police evidence locker, its found-footage aesthetic not merely a gimmick but a deliberate plunge into the abyss of real-world atrocity documentaries. Directed by the Dowdle brothers—John Erick and Drew—this 2007 effort masquerades as a television special pieced together from hundreds of VHS recordings left behind by a serial killer known only as the Waterworks Killer, operating in upstate New York during the late 1990s and early 2000s.
What sets it apart in the crowded found-footage subgenre is its unyielding commitment to procedural authenticity: interviews with beleaguered detectives, forensic psychologists, and shell-shocked family members intercut with the killer’s own unfiltered home movies, creating a mosaic that feels less like scripted cinema and more like a leaked FBI file. The film clocks in at a taut 86 minutes, yet its impact lingers far longer, burrowing into the psyche with the relentless persistence of damp rot. For those weaned on the polished shocks of mainstream slashers, this is horror stripped bare, a methodical dissection of evil that prioritizes psychological dread over jump scares or excessive gore.
From the outset, the mockumentary framework establishes an ironclad verisimilitude, opening with a SWAT raid on a nondescript Poughkeepsie home where authorities uncover not just dozens of bodies meticulously cataloged in black trash bags, but over 800 videotapes chronicling the killer’s decade-long reign of terror. These tapes, purportedly shot on consumer-grade camcorders, capture everything from mundane abductions in broad daylight to the most intimate depravities imaginable, all rendered in that telltale analog fuzz that evokes early 2000s true-crime broadcasts.
Edward Carver—unforgettably embodied by Ben Messmer—remains an enigma, never fully named in the tapes themselves, his face often obscured, voice distorted into a childish lisp that veers from playful taunting to guttural rage, embodying pure, motiveless malignancy without the monologuing backstory that humanizes figures like Hannibal Lecter. Messmer invests the role with a chilling physicality, his lanky frame clad in a grotesque yellow rain slicker becoming an iconic silhouette of suburban nightmare. Yet the film’s true brilliance lies in its restraint; rather than revel in spectacle, it lets the banality of evil seep through, as when Carver methodically dresses a victim in ballerina attire for a mock performance, or forces another into a twisted tea party, the domesticity amplifying the horror. This isn’t about blood sprays or final girls—it’s a taxonomy of sadism, each tape labeled with clinical precision: “Victim 31 – Jennifer,” “Victim 42 – Dance Recital.”
The ensemble of talking heads grounds the proceedings in stark realism, with standouts like Stacy Chbosky as Cheryl Dempsey, the survivor whose tormented recollections form the emotional core of the investigation. Their discussions—ranging from behavioral profiling to Carver’s fetishistic rituals—mirror actual criminology seminars, lending intellectual weight without descending into exposition dumps. These interludes humanize the victims, transforming statistics into shattered lives: a missing jogger here, a single mother there, their absence rippling through communities with quiet devastation. The Dowdles excel at pacing these elements, crosscutting between tape horrors and investigative fallout to build a suffocating tension, where the real terror is Carver’s omnipresence—he films himself stalking malls, taunting police press conferences, even infiltrating a family Thanksgiving. In a genre often criticized for laziness, The Poughkeepsie Tapes weaponizes its format, making viewers complicit voyeurs, questioning why we’re watching at all.
Thematically, the film probes the pornography of violence, echoing the likes of Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer or the Paradise Lost documentaries, but with a rawer edge that anticipates the analog horror wave of the 2020s. It grapples with voyeurism’s allure, as detectives pore over tapes like addicts, one admitting the footage “gets into your dreams.” Carver’s escalating fetishes—binding victims in spiderwebs of duct tape, staging puppet shows with their limbs—escalate from perverse play to outright desecration, culminating in a sequence involving a captured police officer that tests even hardened viewers. Yet amid the depravity, glimmers of perverse artistry emerge: the meticulous framing of shots, the almost balletic choreography of assaults, suggesting a mind as creative as it is corrupt. This duality fascinates—evil as both banal and sublime—without ever excusing it. The film’s independent ethos shines through its low-budget ingenuity; shot on digital video run through VHS filters, it achieves a patina of age that rivals big-studio recreations. Sound design deserves special mention—the muffled whimpers, the hiss of tape rewind, the sudden shrieks—crafting an auditory assault that lingers in the ears long after the screen fades.
Of course, no film this ambitious escapes imperfection. The grainy visuals, while immersive, occasionally border on opacity, turning key moments murky when clarity might heighten the impact; a few tapes feel repetitious, padding runtime before the finale’s revelations. Acting varies—some interviews veer toward community theater stiffness, and the killer’s voice modulation can grate like a parody of itself. Pacing sags in the midsection amid procedural minutiae, demanding patience from those expecting non-stop carnage. Distribution woes didn’t help; shelved for years post-Tribeca premiere, it finally surfaced on home video in 2017, its cult status now cemented online but still niche. These are quibbles, though, in a landscape of forgettable slashers; they don’t undermine the core achievement.
Ultimately, The Poughkeepsie Tapes endures as a gut-punch reminder of horror’s primal function: to confront the void within humanity. It doesn’t titillate or moralize—it documents, with unflinching gaze, the machinery of monstrosity. Fans of vérité terrors like Lake Mungo or The Bay will find kin here, a film that trades spectacle for seepage, leaving stains no bleach can remove. In an era of sanitized streaming chills, its refusal to look away remains a defiant virtue. Seek it out on a lonely night, but keep the lights on after.
Small town boxer Charlie Davis (Ray Mancini) travels to Reno with his best friend and manager, Tiny O’Toole (Michael Chiklis). Charlie wants to become a professional and he has the support of Tiny and Gina (Jennifer Beals), a saintly hitchhiker that they pick up on the way to Nevada. Charlie managers to impress a legendary trainer (Rod Steiger) but, as Charlie moves up the ranks, he comes under the influence of a corrupt promoter (Joe Mantegna). Seduced by a bad girl (Tahnee Welch) and allowing his success to go to his head, Charlie alienates Tiny just when he needs him the most. A chance to become the champion is coming up and the promoter expects Charlie to throw the fight.
There’s not a boxing cliche that goes unused in this movie. Simple-minded by talented boxer? Check. Loyal best friend? Check. Overwrought narration? Double check because merely calling this film’s narration overwrought doesn’t begin to do it justice. Saintly good girl? Check. Dangerous bad girl? Check. Gruff trainer? Check. Corrupt promoter? Another double check. It’s not that the cliches are necessarily unwelcome. Most boxing movies follow the same basic plot. Instead, the problem here is that the film neither has the direction or the performances to make the cliches compelling.
You would think that casting Ray Mancini as a boxer would give this film some authenticity but Mancini looks as uncomfortable in the ring as he does when he’s having to actually act. As bad as Mancini is, his performance is nowhere near as desultory as Michael Chiklis’s. Chiklis not only plays Tiny but he also narrates the movie and watching and listening to him, you would be hard pressed to believe that he would someday star in The Shield. Meanwhile, Rod Steiger and Jennifer Beals are wasted in underwritten roles.
If there is one thing that redeems the film, it’s Joe Mantegna as the crooked promoter. Using his Fat Tony voice, Mantegna at least seems to have a sense of humor about the film.
I always appreciate a good boxing movie but this ain’t it.
Joel Schumacher’s 8MM (1999) uncoils like a reel of forbidden footage you shouldn’t have found, pulling a buttoned-up private eye into the rancid shadows of underground smut peddlers and whispers of snuff films that may or may not exist. It’s a late-’90s thriller smack in the wake of Se7en and Kiss the Girls, starring Nicolas Cage as Tom Welles, a Harrisburg family man whose crisp suits and steady hands belie the unraveling ahead. Hired by a steel magnate’s widow to verify an 8mm tape depicting a girl’s torture-murder, Welles tumbles down a rabbit hole of L.A. peep shows and New York meatpacking sleaze, his moral compass spinning as the line between fantasy and atrocity blurs. Schumacher crafts a narrative engine that hums with procedural grit, doling out dread in measured doses while mirroring the protagonist’s corrosion, though it occasionally stumbles in its heavier-handed turns.
The setup hooks with surgical efficiency, painting Welles as everydad detective: he buries bodies for a living, kisses his infant daughter goodbye, and screens the tape in a vault-like study that feels like a confessional. Myra Carter’s Mrs. Christian trembles with decorous horror as the projector whirs to life, bathing the room in jaundiced flicker; the footage—grainy, handheld, a pleading teen bound for “Machine’s” blade—lands like a gut punch without lingering on gore. Lawyer Longdale (Anthony Heald, all patrician slime) waves it off as staged porn, but Welles digs anyway, tracing victim Mary Ann Mathews through missing-persons archives to her runaway dreams in Hollywood. Paired with Max California (Joaquin Phoenix), a Sunset Strip tape jockey with pawn-shop cynicism and a Zipperhead tee, they prowl fetish dens where vendors hawk needle-play loops and dismiss snuff as urban legend. Schumacher’s lens, via Robert Elswit, turns these dives into feverish grottos—neon strobes slicing steam, racks of VHS promising the forbidden—building unease through denial upon denial.
That mounting frustration propels the first hour’s finest stretches, a slow immersion where Welles’s calls home grow terse, his wife’s concern (Catherine Keener, quietly anchoring) a lifeline fraying in crosscuts. Max’s street-rat patter—”Snuff? Ain’t no such thing as snuff, man”—leavens the rot without undercutting it, Phoenix layering vulnerability beneath the snark that makes his arc genuinely affecting. Schumacher parcels revelations like a fuse burning short: a Florida trailer confirms Mary Ann’s vanishing, a porn mag scout nods toward “real death” commissions, and suddenly they’re in New York, knocking on Dino Velvet’s door. Peter Stormare vamps as the mulleted auteur of extremity, his studio a cathedral of spotlit chains where Machine (masked, hulking) performs for hidden lenses. The confrontation there explodes into sudden violence and betrayal, shattering assumptions about the tape’s origins and thrusting Welles into a desperate fight for survival, with devastating losses that harden his path forward.
This mid-film rupture peels back layers of the underworld’s machinery, revealing how far some will go to sate forbidden appetites—no vast conspiracy, just raw opportunism turning fantasy lethal. Chaos erupts in a brutal showdown that catapults Welles into lone-wolf payback, though the script’s mechanics creak here, tipping from investigation to vengeance saga with less finesse than its buildup promises. He tracks leads back to L.A., confronting scout Eddie Poole (James Gandolfini) in a derelict factory, beating out confessions amid rusted girders, then facing Machine—unmasked as unassuming accountant George Higgins (Chris Bauer), who shrugs, “I like it”—in a rain-slicked graveyard melee. Schumacher stages the violence as visceral toll, not catharsis: fists land with bone-crunching thuds, blood sprays real, and Welles emerges hollowed, sobbing in his wife’s arms over the unerasable stain. It’s raw consequence over triumph, indicting the watcher as much as the watched.
Cage shoulders the load masterfully, dialing back his manic energy for a portrait of competence curdling into obsession—hesitant stares post-tape, fists unclenching at home, exploding only when the dam breaks. It’s restrained Cage at his peak, the fury earned through incremental fracture, though some beats flirt with overemphasis. Phoenix shines brighter still, turning Max from sidekick gag into soulful foil; his death resonates because Joaquin sells the bravado as fragile armor. Stormare’s Dino struts operatic depravity, a Bond villain in wifebeater, while Gandolfini’s Poole simmers regretful everyman heft—pre-Sopranos groundwork for Tony’s shadows. Heald’s Longdale drips WASP entitlement, and bits like Norman Reedus’s twitchy dealer add lived-in texture. Schumacher elicits extremes without cartooning them, populating the underworld with deviants who feel plausibly human, not pulp cutouts.
Visually, 8MM thrums with Schumacher’s maximalist pulse tamed to noir grit: Elswit’s shadows swallow faces in peep booths’ crimson haze, the snuff reel’s jitter evokes cursed artifacts, and the loft showdown’s spotlights carve brutality like Bosch hellscapes. Mychael Danna’s score slithers—piano sparsity for Welles’s drift, synth throbs for dives—capped by Aphex Twin’s “Come to Daddy” warping a raid into glitch-rage frenzy. Production design nails the era’s analog underbelly: dog-eared tape boxes, industrial decay standing in for L.A. (shot cheap in Florida), all evoking a pre-digital void where evil hides on celluloid. The snuff aesthetic probes voyeurism smartly—we glimpse pleas and steel without exploitation, questioning our gaze alongside Welles’s, though the film’s flirtation with seediness risks tipping into the very prurience it critiques.
Andrew Kevin Walker’s script (fresh off Se7en) structures as moral diptych: procedural probe yields to vigilante spasm, bookended by domestic anchors that underscore the cost. No tidy psychologizing redeems the killers—Higgins kills because appetite wills it, Poole for “business,” others for greed—exposing evil’s flat banality over tortured backstories. The widow’s suicide post-truth, Mary Ann’s mom’s grateful note (“You cared enough to try”), and Welles’s scarred homecoming deny closure; vengeance hardens more than heals, bodies burned sans parade of justice. It’s a gut-punch thesis on film’s limits: some horrors defy capture, watching them unmakes the witness. Schumacher, slumming post-Batman gloss, revels in the ugly, though pacing drags early in porn prowls and the revenge rampage strains credulity.
Yet for all its stumbles—script contrivances like convenient turns, a third act veering punchy over precise—8MM endures as underrated descent, a thriller that stares unblinking into appetite’s void. Cage and Phoenix elevate genre tropes, Schumacher’s design makes depravity stick, and the core query lingers: does filming evil make it real, or us complicit? Flaws aside, it hums with the era’s dark electricity, a flawed reel worth unspooling for its unflinching grind.
The three Bantam Brothers (Walker Boone, Tony DeSantis, and Dave Mucci) have just gotten out of prison and they’ve all already stolen several pounds of explosives. Pretending to be international terrorists, they try to blackmail banker Adam Beardsley (John Vernon) into paying them off. Deputy Police Commissioner Ray Melton (Robert Vaughn) wants to go by the book but his superior, Thad Evans (Leslie Nielsen), realizes that this case is going to require a cop who is willing to break all the rules. It’s time to call in Jack Calhoun (Bruce Fairbairn).
When this movie started, I assumed that it was a comedy. The title sounded like a double entendre and Leslie Nielsen’s name was right there in the opening credits. The opening heist scene also felt like a comedy, up until the Bantam brothers started shooting people. That was when I realized that this movie was supposed to be a drama. Why would you cast a post-Airplane! Leslie Nielsen in a serious cop film? This film did come out before The Naked Gun but it was still after Nielsen sent up every cop show ever made with the original Police Squad television series. .And then, on top of Nielsen, the film gives us Robert Vaughn and a very grumpy John Vernon. All it needed was OJ Simpson as Calhoun’s partner.
Even though the movie was a drama, it still felt like a comedy. Bruce Fairbairn wasn’t much of a cop but luckily, the three Bantam brothers weren’t that much of a group of criminals. Jack Calhoun had a girlfriend (Kerrie Keane) who constantly reminded him that he could have been having sex with her if he wasn’t constantly searching for the Bantam brothers. “I can’t be in two places at once,” Calhoun said with a sigh. I’m still not convinced this wasn’t a comedy.
Nightstick was originally made for Canadian television. When it first aired, it was called Calhoun. The name was changed to Nightstick for the video release, even though no one in the movie uses a nightstick. Calhoun uses a gun and, at one point, a binder but he doesn’t carry a nightstick. Maybe his character should have been named Jack Nightstick to make the title work.
Did I hallucinate this movie? I’m pretty sure it was a comedy.
Bruise Brubaker (Mr. T) spends his nights as a bouncer at a club owned by his best friend (Dennis Dugan) and his days running a center for at-risk youth. Bruise is a former Marine drill sergeant who is now determined to make Chicago a better place. He’s so cool that his name is Bruise and he even has his own theme song, which plays whenever he patrols the streets and alleys of Chicago. But when it looks like the youth center is going to get closed down unless it can quickly raise some money, Bruise faces the challenge of a lifetime when he enters a competition to prove that he’s the toughest man in the world!
Is Mr. T the toughest man in the world? I pity the fool who even has to ask.
This made-for-TV movie is exactly what you think it is. Mr. T barks out his dialogue with his signature growl but he still seems utterly sincere when he orders the kids to say in school and stop trying to mug old men in the alleys. At first, it seems like Bruise should be able to easily win the Toughest Man competition but it turns out to be tougher than he thought. There’s an extended sequences in which Bruise tries to learn how to box and it turns out that he’s no Clubber Lang. There’s also an extended subplot about some broadly-played mobsters who are hoping that can drug Bruise so he’ll lose the contest.
Probably the funniest thing about the movie is the idea that everyone in Chicago would stop what they were doing so that they could gather around the television and watch the Toughest Man contest. The second funniest thing is Dennis Farina showing up in a small role and reminding us that it takes all types of actors to make a movie.
Mr. T was never a good actor but he was a great personality and that personality is on full display here. The Toughest Man In The World will make you nostalgic for a more innocent time.
“Jakey, Jakey, big mistakey,” the bad guy says at one point during 2015’s Story of Eva and if that doesn’t tell you everything you need to know about this film, I don’t know what to tell you.
Eva (Nicole Rio) is the mother of teenage Amber (Chelsea London Lloyd). After Amber is murdered by a serial killer who also works as a human trafficker, Eva decides to get revenge. First, however, she has to train herself to not only inflict pain but to also handle it. She finds Amber’s stash and starts smoking it. She wears a ball gag. She whips herself. She learns how to handle pain. She uses Amber’s college fund to buy a membership at the gym and takes boxing lessons. And she builds her own little dungeon. Whenever Eva captures a criminal, she turns into Evil Eva and is even played by a different actress, Shawn Craig. Eva is one of those vigilantes who can’t punish an evil-doer without delivering an endless monologue. The script is talky in the way that scripts written by first-timers determined to prove their cleverness often are.
“No child should ever suffer!” Eva — in “good” form — announces before then adding, “What kind of God would allow that?” Thunder rumbles in the background and it’s not for the first or the only time in the movie as Eva views herself as having become a vengeful God. I have to admit that I appreciated the fact that the film was so shamelessly overwrought and overdone. Everything about the the move is over-the-top and yet, oddly, it’s still rather dull. Some of it is that fact that we live in a post-Hostel world. Torture chambers just don’t carry the same jolt that they once did.
Eric Roberts plays a detective who is investigating all of the murders. He is named Detective Wood. His partner (Rico Ross) is named Detective Grind and the fact that there was no one named Detective Bump seems like a missed opportunity. Roberts appears in a handful of scenes and brings some welcome wit to the role.
Previous Eric Roberts Films That We Have Reviewed:
“If you want to walk out of this fucking place, you will listen to people who know!” — Spc. Abraham “Doc” Johnson
Hamburger Hill is one of those Vietnam War movies that doesn’t really bother decorating the war with grand metaphors or tortured soul‑searching; it just puts you on the hill with the grunts and makes you feel every miserable inch of the climb. Released in 1987 and directed by John Irvin, the film is a fictionalized but tightly focused take on the real week‑long “Battle of Hamburger Hill” in the A Sầu Valley, a piece of rugged terrain in central Vietnam that saw some of the bloodiest fighting between U.S. and North Vietnamese Army (NVA) forces in May 1969. The movie dramatizes the 101st Airborne’s 3rd Battalion, 187th Infantry Regiment as they’re ordered to assault a heavily fortified hill over and over again, and it leans hard into the idea that the battle is less about grand strategy and more about raw endurance and attrition.
One of the first things that strikes you about Hamburger Hill is how deliberately it avoids big stars and splashy heroics. The ensemble is made up mostly of young, relatively unknown actors, which ironically makes the cast feel more authentic. You’re not watching a famous movie star playing a grunt; you’re watching a squad of guys who could actually be kids your age sent halfway across the world to die in the mud. The central figure is second‑lieutenant Al Frantz, played by a young Dylan McDermott, who’s stepping up from a desk job into direct combat command. He’s not some infallible war‑hero archetype; he’s earnest, nervous, and visibly out of depth, which makes his slow hardening under fire feel earned rather than heroic. Watching him wrestle with guilt, responsibility, and the absurdity of the orders he’s obeying gives the film a quiet moral backbone without sliding into preachy territory.
The movie is structured around roughly ten days of repeated assaults on “Hamburger Hill,” a soggy, razor‑sharp ridge in the A Sầu Valley that the NVA had turned into a killing zone. Each push uphill is more brutal than the last, and the film doesn’t soften the violence. When someone gets hit, they don’t go down in a graceful slow‑motion shot; they drop suddenly, sometimes mid‑sentence, in a spray of gore that feels uncomfortably real. The script doesn’t fetishize the blood and mud, but it refuses to look away from it either, which makes the whole thing feel like a visceral anti‑glory tract. By the time audiences get to the tenth assault, trudging through torrents of rain and mud while bullets stitch the air around them, the sequence has the effect of a slow, grinding nightmare. It’s less about who’s “winning” and more about the fact that everyone involved is being slowly chewed up by the same machine.
What really keeps Hamburger Hill from feeling like a simple, grim slaughter‑fest is its attention to the characters in the squad. The film invests time in a handful of men—White, Black, and Latino—whose camaraderie, tensions, and private doubts slowly emerge between patrols and firefights. There’s Doc Johnson, the company medic played by Courtney B. Vance, who holds himself together with a veneer of calm professionalism while quietly absorbing the emotional toll of patching up one friend after another. Doc becomes a kind of moral anchor, someone who sees the humanity in every soldier while still recognizing the war’s dehumanizing logic. His presence also lets the film quietly deal with racial friction and class differences without turning them into tidy, feel‑good sermons. The way the soldiers talk over each other, argue about politics back home, and joke about their own fear turns squad life into a cramped, sweaty microcosm of America itself.
The political backdrop of the late‑Vietnam era is always in the background, too. The men occasionally hear distorted chunks of anti‑war protests and news coverage over the radio, and you can see how that information chips away at their sense of purpose. Some of the older soldiers, like the gruff Sgt. Worcester played by Steve Weber, have already lost whatever idealism they might have had and just want to get through the next day. Newer guys, meanwhile, are still wrestling with why they’re there at all, and whether the hill they’re dying for means anything to anyone back in the States. The film doesn’t answer those questions directly; it just lets you feel the uncertainty. That ambivalence is part of what makes Hamburger Hill feel historically grounded. It’s less interested in telling you who was right or wrong in the Vietnam War and more interested in showing what it actually felt like to be a small‑arms infantryman in late‑1969, during one of the bloodiest stretches of fighting in the A Sầu Valley.
Visually, the movie leans into a muddy, washed‑out palette that makes the Philippines‑standing‑in‑for‑Vietnam locations feel appropriately oppressive. The hill itself—the real‑life “Hamburger Hill” in the A Sầu Valley—is a constant, looming presence: slick with rain, choked with barbed wire, and studded with foxholes and bunkers. The camera often stays at ground level, jostling with the soldiers as they crawl, scramble, and stumble upward, which makes the terrain feel like an active enemy. The sound design is similarly unglamorous—gunfire isn’t especially stylized, explosions are chaotic rather than cool, and the constant hiss of rain and distant artillery keeps the film in a state of low‑grade dread. Even the score, a Philip Glass–style arrangement of repetitive, slightly unnerving motifs, adds to the feeling of being trapped in a loop of violence you can’t escape. Everything in the film is built to make the combat feel routine, exhausting, and numbing, rather than spectacular.
Another thing Hamburger Hill handles surprisingly well is the way it dovetails the physical horror of the battle with the men’s private lives back home. In quieter moments between attacks, the soldiers talk about girlfriends, family, and their plans for “after the war,” even though, for some of them, those plans are clearly not going to happen. The film doesn’t milk this stuff for melodrama; instead, it floats just beneath the surface, turning every casual conversation into a quiet pre‑eulogy. When someone makes a joke about getting back to Chicago or New York or wherever they’re from, the line feels both genuine and heartbreaking, because you know the movie might quietly erase that future a few scenes later. That low‑key sense of fragility makes the emotional impact of each death feel more personal, because the film has already taken the time to show you who these guys are when they’re not being shot at.
Narratively, the film doesn’t try to convince you that taking the hill is some great strategic triumph. If anything, it’s openly skeptical about the rationale behind the whole operation. The soldiers keep getting told to “take it, hold it, then fall back,” and the repetition of that order drives home the sense that the hill is more of a symbolic goal than a tactical necessity. The film doesn’t stage a big, dramatic monologue about this; it just lets the repetition of the mission, the rising body count, and the unanswered questions hang in the air. That choice aligns Hamburger Hill more with a film like Apocalypse Now or Full Metal Jacket in spirit, even though its tone is far more straightforward and less stylized. It’s less interested in mythmaking and more interested in capturing the eerie timelessness of infantrymen being sent to die for reasons they don’t fully understand, during one of the fiercest set‑pieces of the Vietnam War.
In terms of its legacy, Hamburger Hill often gets overshadowed by Oliver Stone’s Platoon, which came out a year earlier and snagged the Oscars’ attention. But in a lot of ways, Irvin’s film is a grittier, more unsentimental companion piece. It doesn’t try to map the Vietnam War onto a single moral allegory, and it doesn’t give you a hero to latch onto and cheer for. Instead, it gives you a squad of men, flaws and all, and asks you to watch them go through hell while trying to keep their foothold on each other. That ensemble‑driven approach, combined with the unrelenting realism of the battle sequences, is what makes Hamburger Hill feel like less of a “movie” and more like a grim, ground‑level documentary rooted in the real‑world horror of the Battle of Hamburger Hill.
By the end, the film doesn’t offer a clean sense of resolution. The soldiers do eventually take the hill, but the victory is so hollow and so costly that it hardly feels like a win at all. The last few scenes linger on survivors looking shell‑shocked and exhausted, many of them quietly wondering what the point of it was. The movie doesn’t spell that out in a clumsy voice‑over; it trusts you to feel the absurdity and the weight of what they’ve been through. That refusal to wrap things up with a neat moral bow is one of Hamburger Hill’s strengths. It understands that sometimes the most honest thing a war film can do is show you the damage and then leave you with the questions.
In the crowded field of Vietnam War movies, Hamburger Hill stands out because it strips away the spectacle and just focuses on the brutal, day‑to‑day reality of trying to take a piece of ground that probably shouldn’t matter as much as it does. It’s not a flashy, revolutionary film, but it’s a stubbornly honest one, anchored in the real‑world carnage of the week‑long Battle of Hamburger Hill in the A Sầu Valley. It’s a movie that would rather make you feel the mud squeeze between your toes, hear the too‑close sound of automatic fire, and watch the faces of guys who’ve run out of explanations for why they’re still climbing. If you’re looking for a Vietnam film that doesn’t sugarcoat the war or overdress it in symbolism, Hamburger Hill is the kind of movie that sticks with you precisely because it doesn’t try to be anything more than what it is: a raw, claustrophobic portrait of a squad walking into a meat grinder, one rain‑soaked step at a time.
In 2008’s Cyclops, Ancient Rome is a bad CGI village that is being menaced by an even worse CGI cyclops. (The height of the Cyclops literally changes from scene to scene.) After the Cyclops is captures, it’s forced to fight in the gladiatorial games of the decadent Emperor Tiberius (Eric Roberts). Marcus (Kevin Stapleton), a centurion-turned-gladiator, eventually launches his own revolution against the Empire. When you’re fighting against the 15 members of the fearsome Roman army, it helps to a have a monster from Greek mythology on your side. Long live the Roman Republic!
This is an extremely silly movie but it’s hard not to admire the chutzpah it takes to try to recreate the glory of Rome on a tiny budget. It’s not just that the city of Rome looks like a medieval village. It’s also that there appears to only be about fifty citizens of Rome and most of them look like they wandered over from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. The film doesn’t work but kudos to the filmmakers for trying in the first place. Not surprisingly, this was a Roger Corman production.
Eric Roberts as a Roman emperor is something that simply needs to be seen to believed. Eric has the haircut and the sinful smile and he gives the thumbs up symbol with the proper theatrical flourish. In the film, Tiberius turns on Marcus after the latter demands that he be given a land grant along with his promotion and I’m on Tiberius’s side as far as that goes. Marcus should have just accepted the promotion without making demands. Tiberius had every right to be miffed and no one plays miffed quite as well as Eric Roberts. Tiberius goes on to plan the state dinner that will celebrate the capture of the Cyclops. Tiberius and his friends will have half-a-boar. Marcus will be given “eggs and greens.” Oh, Tiberius!
Previous Eric Roberts Films That We Have Reviewed:
Pilot Tom Gregory (Robert Hutton) lands his private plane in Los Angeles and is shocked to discover that the city is surrounded by a thick fog and that it appears to be nearly deserted. A chance meeting with a professor named Galbraith (Robert Burton) and his two daughters (Susan Hart and Judee Morton) leads the group to a television station where they watch a news report about how Los Angeles has been surrounded by a “hardened fog.” No one can escape the fog and no one can escape the Slime People, reptilian humanoids who have ascended from their underground lair and declared war on the surface world. There appears to only be, at most, six Slime People but I guess that’s all you need to conquer Los Angeles.
The Slime People is a Z-grade horror film that features a lot of stock footage, monsters that would not be out of place in a Jon Pertwee-era Doctor Who serial, and an out-of-control fog machine. The fog machine is actually the star of the show. There’s so much fog in this movie that it’s often impossible to see the actors or the Slime People. It’s a shame because, considering that the production ran out of money after 9 days and the majority of the actors were never paid, the Slime People costumes are not that bad.
Along with the fog and the costumes, the other memorable thing about The Slime People is that none of the survivors seem to be particularly upset about any of the horror that they’ve just experienced. One young soldier (William Boyce) takes the time to ask one of the professor’s daughters if she’ll be available to date once the crisis ends. It’s a tribute to the American youth of the 1960s that not even an attack from underground dwellers could stop date night.
After a patient that he’s sleeping with commits suicide, psychiatrist Ed Altman (Mickey Rourke) moves to Palm Springs and sets up a new practice in the desert. His attorney (Carre Otis) is able to get Altman off the hook legally but Ed is soon in more trouble as he meets and falls for Ally Mercer (Annabel Schofield). When Ally’s husband is murdered, Ed realizes that Ally and her fur coat-wearing boyfriend (Anthony Michael Hall) are trying to frame him for the crime.
Through the Shattered Lens